


Peak Hour

by Synchron



Series: Peak Hour [1]
Category: JUDGE EYES: 死神の遺言 | Judgment
Genre: Coming In Pants, Discreet Hand Jobs, Dry Humping, F/M, Grinding, Hand Jobs, In Public, Public Transportation, Risk Aware Consensual Kink, sort of???
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-21
Updated: 2021-01-22
Packaged: 2021-03-13 02:28:48
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,557
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28895898
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Synchron/pseuds/Synchron
Summary: He's cute.And you're bored.
Relationships: Higashi Toru/Reader
Series: Peak Hour [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2119218
Comments: 15
Kudos: 40





	1. Now Departing

**Author's Note:**

> Yes I know I have another Higashi thing up that requires attention, and also a bunch of other WIPs, but LISTEN, I need content for my yakuza boyfriend okay, he is a TREASURE!!!!
> 
> I already have an end in mind for this mini series, which will then segue into horny one shots. It won't turn into a Devil's Pact okay, I promise, there will be no plot, only horny, I PROMISE. 😤😤
> 
> Hope you like it...! 😔🙏

There is _nothing_ worse than public transport during peak hour.

You've never enjoyed being close to people you don't know, and being squeezed - literally, the doormen are out in full force today - into what's already a confined space isn't the ideal way to start off your day. Never has, never will be.

But it beats leaving your home forty minutes earlier every morning to walk to your job, so it is, unfortunately, a necessary evil.

For the most part, everybody minds their own business. The only real hurdle that exists is the proximity. It takes some effort, squeezing by other passengers to find a spot to stand where you can possess even a modicum of privacy, and today, that spot is right in the corner of the compartment, just by the door. Or well, as close to it as possible anyway. Another man has the fortune of standing there instead, wearing a suit, but not of the plain monochrome of the typical office worker. It's bolder. Flashier. Some would even say gaudy. It's precisely the sort of suit that you've associated with a certain ring of individuals who live below the law, but you'll take your chances with him. It's eight in the morning after all, in broad daylight on a train full of people; he'd be stupid to try anything. And as a bonus, if he gets off the train before you do, then you'll have his prime spot for yourself. 

You peer up at the man as you move in, an unspoken query where you express your intent with nothing but a look. He's young… sort of, it's hard to tell when his eyes are hidden behind tinted spectacles. His hair is slicked back, oddly professional, but that's offset by the lone pierced ear. He spares you a glance when he senses movement in front of him, but he's largely minding his own business and seems to be as annoyed with the number of passengers as you are. So you'll take it, squeezing into the tiny space directly in front of him.

It's always a little maddeningly awkward in these situations; with people all around you, there's nowhere to turn to maintain even an iota of privacy, but you shuffle around on the spot until you're facing the door, your back to the man with the primo spot on the train. Mentally, inwardly, you note where you should stand on the platform next time in order to make a beeline to this exact spot, and then? Then you stare blankly out the window at passing scenery. There's still a ways to go before your stop. May as well clock out before you have to clock in.

You're only a minute, tops, into your prolonged empty staring when the train lurches, decelerating as it approaches the next stop. With such poor footing, and no rails to hold onto, it makes you stumble a little, falling into the man behind you. He catches you rather easily, coolly, with one steady hand on your forearm, not letting go until you've regained your balance. When you turn to look at him over your shoulder, to mumble a word of thanks, your eyes meet again, and you notice his face, _actually_ notice his face for the first time.

He's clean shaven, yet still a little gruff. Prominent cheekbones, and wears a scowl and a creased brow just right to give off _just enough_ of an air of danger. And yet his eyes flicker away from you, slightly bashful, when you thank him, offering only an affirmative grunt in response.

So dangerous, but also shy.

That's _adorable_.

You give him a smile, a tilt of your head, a bat of your eyelashes, and then he actually does look away, angling his head back down at his phone, jaw set, but visibly clenching through his cheeks. You turn back then too, just in time for the doors to open at the station, where the doormen will shove another few people aboard. The current of bodies scoots you backwards until your back is almost right up against the man, close enough he can smell your perfume, intimate enough that he can glean the scent of your shampoo. He tenses behind you, tries to shuffle back even further, but his back is against a wall. Literally. He has nowhere else to go.

And that's when an idea strikes you.

A wicked little idea that'll help distract you from the plethora of people all around you. Help make your commute a little more interesting.

You give a cursory glance around the packed train, watching for anybody who seems they may be the nosy type. But just like the man behind you, they're lost in their own thoughts, focusing only on themselves.

Perfect.

There's nothing stopping you.

With your bottom lip pinched between your teeth, and a glint of mischief lighting up your eyes, you lean back into him a little, slowly, subtly, as if swayed by the movements of the train. It brings your ass right up against his crotch, just a light brush at first, something he could easily wave off as coincidence, which he does, sparing you not even a glance.

Until you do it again.

You feel him tense behind you again, body going rigid as he shifts on the spot, perhaps realising now that something is off, that you're rubbing against him with far too much precision for it to be merely an accident. You go still when you realise he's noticed you, waiting for him to react - if he wants to sink further into the corner away from you, then you'll respect his space and keep to yourself.

You'll also be rather disappointed, in all honesty, but you figure you shouldn't push boundaries should he set them.

But he doesn't. Even on the third, prolonged press where your hips sway ever so slightly against the fleshy bulge slotted up against your ass, he remains perfectly still, locked in place as if nothing had happened. This, you take as your cue to press on; if he doesn't care, if he doesn't mind, if he enjoys himself, then you're going to milk this little escapade for all that it's worth. And who knows, you may even mean that in the literal sense.

Your chest begins to tighten, to lighten, with giddy excitement when you hear a noise from behind you - like a cough almost, stifled and muffled. But you alone know precisely what it hides. Especially when you can feel his cock begin to harden through the thin material of your pencil skirt, twitching and growing against the curve of your ass. You reach one hand up, disguising a peek over your shoulder as an adjustment of your hair, turning only as far as you dare to, which happens to be just far enough to meet his gaze from out the corner of your eye; he's impassive, almost to the point that it's sultry, but maybe that's just the tingling ache between your legs talking.

He isn't the only one aroused by your actions.

Keeping a straight face is perhaps the hardest thing about all of this - well, maybe the _second_ hardest thing - the desire to rile him up further with quiet mewls of your own satisfaction fighting rather valiantly against the need to not cause a scene. In the end, it's the rawness, the scandalous nature of it that keeps your expression placid while you rock and grind against the straining cock of a complete stranger. Who _doesn't_ have fantasies about this sort of thing? Not you, and if that little nudge you can feel against your ass is any indication, not him either.

It's almost too tempting to reach behind you to seek out his hand, to maybe guide it around you and slip it beneath your skirt, but that would be far too obvious. So you settle instead for clamping your thighs together and pretending the pressure belongs to something else. Some _one_ else.

You become bolder as time goes on, as more passengers pile in at subsequent stations, forcing you further backwards until you're almost flush against the stranger at your back. With so many people aboard now, all too caught up in keeping to themselves, in maintaining their own bubbles of personal space, you feel a hand settle on your hip. Just the tips of his fingers at first, testing the waters, seeking permission, waiting for your reaction. You give him one in the form of a deeper press of your hips, dipping ever so slightly and sashaying side to side, and then his hand grips you, bunching the material of your skirt.

From then on, despite the impossible number of people around, it's as though you're both isolated from them, separated by an invisible, imperceptible barrier. He begins to move too, subtly meeting each slow, sinuous grind with one of his own, also a bit shy, a bit nervous at first, but he works his way up to braver motions, guiding you back against him, to the left a little, where he'd dutifully tucked his cock, now fully hard and delightfully thick. It gives him the most friction, and you swear, you _swear_ , that over the hum of the air conditioner, the passive ambience of the train, you hear him muffle a groan.

That his restraint is beginning to fray makes your heart race, a wet warmth blooming between your legs where you wish, you sorely wish, his cock could be. You don't care what sort of man this guy is at this point, you just know you're aching for something thick, something hard, sliding into your heat. You wonder what it would be like, if there is a _way_ for him to pull his cock out without anybody noticing, to slip between your thighs so you can lavish it with the attention it deserves.

But having a stranger dry hump you during peak hour on a train is just as thrilling, the mere motions of what you both want to be doing more than enough to soak the seat of your panties. You can hear the man's breaths behind you, not quite haggard, but certainly beginning to quicken, sometimes deep and slow to compose himself, sometimes a quiet hiss that he sucks in through his teeth, sometimes a stifled but no less throaty groan that you wish was breathed into your ear instead.

But alas, your stop is next. You cover his hand with yours, thumb at it gently as a gesture of appreciation, and then part from him, throwing him one last parting look and a wink before you're out the door and immediately lost in a sea of people.

You think about him for the rest of the day.

He does the same.


	2. Now Arriving

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ....yeah so I slammed this out over the course of today, because I cannot stop thinking about my boy, and just can't bear to leave him hanging jlkshd. Thank you to everybody who's shown interest in this, I'm so glad Higashi's got some fans out there, he's truly a precious gift 😤😤

You see him again over the next few weeks. Always at the same time, always in the same car, but as luck would have it, never near enough to initiate, or even to say anything. _Is_ there even anything to say? Frankly, you're not certain he even remembers your face, but on the occasions that your eyes meet by chance, he almost always blinks away immediately; it's all the proof you need that what you'd done still lingers on his mind.

Ugh, that's so cute.

Tall, tough looking, well dressed, a little sensitive, _and_ can't seem to keep his eyes off you? You'd be stupid not to capitalise on that. So you do.

Mostly you send him knowing looks; they're nothing but prolonged stares from across the way, where you wait until his eyes inevitably lift from his phone again. Sometimes it takes a minute, but like clockwork, it is a certainty. And when he does, you smile at him. It's neither soft nor sweet, but an impish curve of your lips that's implicative of something deeper and darker that only he knows. And oh, does he know. He blinks several times in succession, not quite a fluster, but he does shift his weight on the spot, his lips parting as if he intends to say something. But how can he when you're on the other side of the car, swept away by the flow of new commuters? His mouth closes again, and he looks back down at his phone.

On the occasions you're close enough to him, the less hectic days, you'll touch him. Soft and subtle, unlike your very first run in with him; the brush of your hand on his arm, disguised as a means to regain lost balance; a sway as the train lurches forward that presses your breasts into his back; and on your more brazen, more playful days, the toe of your heeled shoes up one calf, never lingering for long, but always returning. Never higher than his knee, but always a surefire way to coax out a shiver.

He hardly ever responds of course, as is expected of him, merely returning your forward gestures with slight coughs and a rough clearing of his throat from time to time. Such is the game you've both enabled the other into. But at least your commutes to work aren't boring anymore.

Today however, you crave something a little more adventurous. He's been such a good boy, unwittingly allowing you to do as you please and raising neither fuss nor brow from other passengers… maybe he deserves something a little more direct.

You take your place behind him this time, facing to his right where you stare out the window in front of you. You say nothing, and he does the same. As far as anybody can tell, you're simply two strangers on a packed train. He doesn't know what you're planning on doing, but he pretends he isn't interested, scrolling idly through his phone, as if he isn't paying attention to the way you shuffle a little closer. As if he isn't hyper aware of every move you're making behind him. He swallows, adam's apple bobbing, but otherwise makes no indication of what he's thinking. The train departs from the station at a slow tilt, and you wait an agonising handful of seconds before you make your move.

A moment later, he feels a tug low at his side.

Your hand wanders, slips through the slit at the bottom of his suit jacket and into the left pocket of his trousers. The length and cut of his suit jacket hangs over wrist, hiding the motions of your hand, but all the same, it's a bold move and certainly several steps up from everything you've been doing since that first encounter. But ever since then, ever since you felt it grow and harden against your ass, you'd wondered what it would feel like in your hand. The shape of him. The weight. The feel of velvety skin under your fingers. You found yourself wondering the most how he would react to your study of him, what sounds he would make if not shackled by the need to be decent in public. Is his voice as deep as you're expecting it to be? Perhaps a bit breathy, a bit husky. You pinch your lower lip between your teeth at the thought, biting back another smile.

Distantly, you realise you barely recognise your own reflection in the mirror. Since when were you this cheeky? This lewd?

At least a few weeks.

In his pocket, hidden from prying eyes, your fingers brush a solid ridge tucked against his thigh, and you know beyond a shadow of a doubt that you've found what you're looking for. The muted stutter of his hips tells you all you need to know. He's a little soft, but not entirely, already half hard and continuing to grow. It makes you wonder. Is he always like this when he sees you? Does he think about you and your reactions and the feel of your skin whenever he spots you on the train?

The way he swells beneath your touch tells you he does.

You run two fingers down the length of his burgeoning cock, only the very tips, grazing lightly on either side where it sits trapped under too many layers, away from your direct touch. He squares his shoulders, fights back a shudder, swallows a pleased groan, but the more he hides his pleasure, the more insistently he throbs in your hand, spurred on by how bold, how shameless, how much of an actual slut you are. You breathe out a quiet whine, as loud as you dare so he can hear how much you're enjoying yourself too, and at that, his hips subtly grind into your hand, seeking more of your touch. You adjust your grip, twisting your wrist until you grasp as much of his cock as you can, stroking, squeezing gently, until he's fully hard. It only takes a minute, then he's thick and hot and heavy in your hand. The tip of him is delightfully soft and spongy, and you trace the outline of the head of his cock with your index finger, back and forth, back and forth over the blunt curve of him until you feel a spot of something sticky, something damp underneath the pad of your finger.

You rub that right into the material that lines his pockets.

The man squirms and sucks in a breath.

Your hand shifts again, until you're pressing your palm against his length, giving him as much contact with the heat of your hand as you can. With a light press, you apply pressure, massaging him in full strokes from the base to the tip until his thigh tenses. Chancing a glance, you peer up at his reflection in the window. His eyes are closed, brow furrowed with a look of concentration that belies what he's feeling, what's actually happening down below, just out of sight. You keep a watch on his expression, how it tightens, how his jaw flexes, the slight parting of his lips in a silent, pleasured grunt. His hips are moving in time to your strokes now, but just barely, a slow rhythm that is equal parts not enough, and entirely too much. His enthusiasm has you squirming too, your weight shifting from foot to foot as you squeeze your thighs together. It really is a shame he can't return the favour, that you can't let him feel the mess he's helping make of your panties. You can only hope that he knows.

Fuck, why are people around?

Why can't you simply drop to your knees in front of him and blow him? Maybe let him rail you against the train doors, on the seats, up against one of the poles. You'd probably even let him press you flat against the floor. You've already established yourself as a shameless slut - your hand is deep in his pocket, pumping his cock and milking bead after bead of precum until he soaks through - what reputation do you have to tarnish?

You don't realise your breathing is uneven and staggered until a telling flinch in his shoulders brings you back into the present, and suddenly his cock in your hand is pulsing as he cums. You hear plastic creak nearby; the sound of his phone squeaking in his hand from his knuckle-white grip. But he is otherwise silent through his orgasm, his expression locked into a placid state, afraid to even breathe lest he give himself away. You bite down harder on your lip, your vision unfocusing on what's passing by out the window in favour of diverting all of your focus and attention on every burst of cum that seeps through the lining of his pocket, coating your fingers, the entirety of your palm… even the way he throbs and twitches is hypnotic, potent enough that your cunt clenches, needy and greedily, over nothing. You coax every last drop out of him until the inside of his pocket is sticky and humid, until he jerks away from your hand; the feel of too-coarse material; the rawness of your touch. You can hardly believe you made a man cum on a packed train surrounded by other people, but you suppose that were you in his position, you would have too.

Smearing the last of his warm seed on a patch of untainted material, you wipe off your hand and withdraw it as the train arrives at your station. You thank him, though not verbally - you merely lean into him a little, a barely there graze of your shoulder against his back, and give one final drag of your nails against his sensitive and still throbbing cock. And then you pull away.

The man composes himself with one deep breath in and subtly adjusts his stance, almost jolting from an aftershock, one final tremor of pleasure as his trousers spark friction against his cock. He turns his head to watch as you step off the train without so much as a glance back, perhaps a bit disappointed in himself - once again he didn't get much of a chance to talk to you.

...or so he thinks.

Aside from the uncomfortable feeling that sticks his trousers to his thigh, he feels something else in his pocket. He reaches in, carefully avoiding the mess you'd left in your wake, where he finds a folded up piece of paper.

_It has your number on it._


End file.
